30 Shades of Sherlock
by astudyinotters
Summary: This is my attempt at the 30 day OTP NSFW (Not safe for work) challenge featuring John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.
1. Day One

**I've seen quite a few authors/artists take on this 30 day OTP NSFW challenge, and after reading/viewing a few collections, I was inspired to try my hand at it. I will do my best to post regularly, but bear with me if I skip a few days then upload a few chapters all at once. I don't actually have internet capabilities where I live, so I have to take advantage of it when I can track it down.**

**Anyways, I hope you'll enjoy this journey as much as I will. Any and all feedback is appreciated. :)**

* * *

It was quiet when John woke, glazed eyes snapping to the silent alarm clock perched on the bedside table. 6:02, it read, and John cursed his body's persistent internal clock. After spending the better part of this last week working in the clinic by day and chasing murderers around the streets of London by night, he was completely drained. After Sherlock had wrapped up the case last night, John had been looking forward to having a lie-in, but nope. Like clockwork, he woke up just after his alarm would go off, and at this point- _6:14 his brain supplied_- the probability of falling back asleep was slim to none.

With a sigh, John rolled over onto his right shoulder, and was pressed nose to chest with a very warm, very naked, still asleep consulting detective. John took a deep breath and scooted away, distancing himself just enough so he could take in Sherlock's form. He knew, without a doubt, that the sleeping man had spent many nights cataloging John's body while he slept, and now it was John's turn.

It was surprising, John thought, that while asleep, Sherlock looked impossibly young. The usual delicate crinkles around his eyes and the deep furrows streaking across his brow were nowhere to be seen. His expression was relaxed and peaceful, and John decided he wanted to see Sherlock like this more often.

The skin stretched across Sherlock's abdomen was littered with scars. Gently, John lifted a hand and trailed his fingers from silvery, criss-crossing webs, to raised, red trails. The pads of his fingertips dipped into the hollows between Sherlock's bones, and the valleys of healed-over puncture wounds. It was a roadmap of the sacrifice he'd made while dismantling Moriarty's web, a sacrifice that ultimately, was for John.

John froze, his hand resting warmly over one perfect, angular hipbone, when Sherlock stirred beside him, John's own name falling from plush, sleep-slack lips in a whisper. John's blood roared in his ears, pulsing wildly as his heart raced. Sherlock reached for him in his sleep, bone-white fingers wrapping around John's sturdy arms and _pulling_ with a surprising strength. Once more, with a huff, John found himself pressed up against Sherlock, breath hitching when the detective's curls tickled across his sternum, his breath falling in hot puffs across his chest.

Sherlock was _snuggling_ and it surprised John. His head was pressed against John's chest, no doubt subconsciously taking in the erratic tattoo it beat against his ribcage, and his arm was draped across John's chest. The detective's long legs were pressed against his own, both sets only covered by the sheet they were tangled in. Sherlock shifted again, pressing more firmly against John's body, and John's breath hitched as Sherlock's member pressed against his hip, hot, and soft, and _hard_.

A moan fell from Sherlock's open lips, John's name tumbling out just after. The doctor felt his cheeks burn as his cock twitched in appreciation. Sherlock slowly rubbed his erection against John's hip, a content sigh puffing across John's chest. John couldn't help but stare as each of Sherlock's movements moved the sheet further and further down his body, revealing miles of scar-ridden, porcelain skin.

Sherlock stopped rutting just as the top swell of his arse peeked out of the sheet, curling in tighter against John's chest. John groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, a feeble attempt to reign in his overactive mind as it tried to desperately to complete the picture of a naked Sherlock. He knew, theoretically, what Sherlock would look like naked. All long, lean limbs, not an ounce of body fat anywhere on his trim form. But his arse seemed to defy all known laws of existence and a few unknown ones too. Based on Sherlock's build, his arse should be as thin and flat as the rest of him, but no; not a single thing that made up Sherlock would be defined by something as mundane as rules.

His arse was as plush and full as those plush, cursed, wonderful, cupid-bow lips. Just as Sherlock's lips begged to be kissed, his arse begged to be touched and kneaded, to be explored with fingers and teeth and tongue, to be turned hot and red under John's palm as he bottomed out inside him… John was pulled from his thoughts when Sherlock shifted beside him again, his body going rigid as he finally woke up, some eighty minutes after John.

"John?" the detective mumbled, his voice rough and heavy with sleep.

"Hmmmm?" John hummed, hand ghosting up to rest reassuringly between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

"What are we doing?" Sherlock asked, his body still stiff under John's fingers.

"Cuddling, I think," John replied.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, his body slowly relaxing against John's. "That's so… normal," he murmured, head turning to nuzzle closer into John's side.

John chuckled. "Nothing with you is ever normal." he commented. "So can you tell me why we're naked?"

Sherlock froze again, pausing for a moment before pulling away slightly from John. "I was cold, and you were warm. Figured I could warm up while I slept; you radiate body heat like a furnace, even in those awful jumpers you insist on wearing. I didn't know you were naked," he murmured, fingers pulling the sheet tight around his middle.  
John's hands were steady as he reached for Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him back, tangling their legs together as the detective fell on John's chest. "It's fine, Sherlock. It's all fine. Just curious," he murmured, wrapping his arms around milky skin.

"I don't make you uncomfortable?" Sherlock asked.

"Sometimes, yes," John admitted, tightening his hold. "But right now, not at all. I don't know about you, but I'm still knackered from the last case. I'd be more than happy to stay like this all day."

"All day? Really, John, that's impractical," Sherlock huffed.

John chuckled. "Well, maybe not all day. But I wouldn't be opposed to moving this to the couch so we can watch crap telly."

Sherlock was quiet for a heartbeat. "Can we stay here a little longer?" he asked.

John smiled. "Of course. We can stay here as long as you'd like."

There was quite a bit of rustling as Sherlock moved about, rearranging sheets and draping his body so that the only point of contact between the two was where Sherlock's head rested on John's chest. With a sigh, John gripped the sheet and pulled, the soft cotton peeling away from Sherlock's torso as their bodies got closer once more.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked, grappling for control over the sheet.

"I told you before; cuddling," John replied, wrapping his other arm around Sherlock's waist.

"Yes, but does it have to be naked?" Sherlock huffed, holding tight to the sheet.

"No," John murmured, squeezing the taller man gently, "but it is the best way to do it."

Sherlock laughed and let the sheet go, pressing as close to John as he could. "I guess you'll just have to show me why. Perhaps we can experiment with it?" he offered.

John smirked and winked at his detective. "Oh trust me, I plan to."


	2. Day Two

**Here's the fill for the second day. The third chapter will be up either sometime tonight, or three and four will appear tomorrow night. I hope this chapter finds you well. Cheers.**

* * *

The cuddling experiment, much to John's chagrin, didn't last very long. After dozing in bed for another hour or so, Lestrade had called with another case and Sherlock was up and out the door within fifteen minutes, John tumbling out behind him half a slice of toast dangling from his mouth.

The new case was a nine on Sherlock's scale, and the detective was vibrating with energy. Two cab rides and a meeting later, they were back in Baker Street, stuffing clothes and toiletries and books into suitcases and bags. They were headed to Brighton to investigate some locked room murder that John was happy not knowing the details to just yet.

Sherlock burst into his room, unannounced, brandishing an unmarked garment bag. "John, it is imperative that you pack this in your suitcase. It simply cannot be left behind," he said, dropping the garment bag into John's open suitcase. The doctor could only splutter as Sherlock retreated to continue packing god knows what in the privacy of his own bedroom.

Taking a moment to pinch the bridge of his nose and count backwards from twenty, John sighed. This was going to be an intense case, and likely a long one. He'd be lucky if he could get Sherlock to engage in taking care of his transport at all.

Three days after they arrived in Brighton, John was ready to climb the walls. They were staying in a very small one bedroom, one bathroom room at a cheap inn. All of the meager furniture was old and slightly ratty, including the double bed monopolizing the left side of the room. While Sherlock didn't sleep regularly, he had taken to draping himself dramatically across the bed, taking up as much space as he could. For three nights, John had napped wherever he could find room, alternating between lounging cattywompus on the chair and curling up on whatever stretch of bed he could get.

When they'd been there a week, John was exhausted. He'd stopped being able to nap, and now his eating schedule was skewed. After his third interview of the morning, John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, announced he was going back to the inn, and demanded that Sherlock be back and ready to go to dinner at five, no excuses. The detective raised an eyebrow at the doctor, but one harsh look from John assured him he wasn't kidding.

John woke up just after four and puttered about, making tea and checking his phone. There was one message from Sherlock

_11:09 Dinner at the restaurant downstairs. 5pm. Wear the suit - SH_

_4:14: What suit? - JW_

_4:14 The one in your garment bag. Shoes are in the closet - SH_

Curious, John padded over to his garment bag and opened it. Inside, Sherlock had packed a three-piece suit, complete with button down, neck tie, and pocket square. Shaking his head, John abandoned the bag to head into the bathroom for a shave, wondering all the way why he needed a three piece suit for dinner.

Half-way through his shower, John was interrupted by the bathroom door bursting open, a familiar, pale hand gripping the shower curtain. "John, hurry up. I need to shower before dinner, too."

"You can't wait until I'm done?" John spluttered, wiping water from his eyes.

"You did say no excuses. It's already quarter until five, and we still need to dress," Sherlock replied.

John huffed and turned to face the shower head. "Fine. Get in. We'll shower together."

"John?" Sherlock

"I said get in," John repeated. "The sooner we wash, the sooner we can go to dinner. Then you can do god knows what while I catch up on some sleep."

Sherlock slipped in behind him a heartbeat later, hands reaching past John for soap. He missed and slipped, body falling forward to pin John against the cold shower tiles, ripping a particularly colorful string of curses from his lips.

John's hands were sturdy as he steadied first Sherlock, making sure the detective was under the stream of water. "Fucking hell, Sherlock. Next time just ask for the bloody soap," he scolded, picking up the soap bar and lathering it in his hands. When John was satisfied with the layer of lather, he discarded the bar and slicked his hands across Sherlock's shoulders, down his back, around his front, his steady, calloused digits sloughing off days worth of dirt and grime and sweat.

Sherlock gasped at the unexpected touch, subconsciously leaning into the doctor's hands ever so slightly. "John, what are you doing?" he breathed.

"Washing you since you're inept at doing it yourself," John replied, bending to work soap into lean thighs. He was methodical with the washing, fingers working Sherlock's skin in small circles. When he finished, John stood, rinsed his hands, and repeated his actions on his own body.

Sherlock watched, his mouth gaping open, as John washed himself. Every time the detective closed his eyes or took his mind off the case for a moment, his thoughts turned to John. He couldn't help but ruminate on their short-lived cuddling experiment from a week ago. The memory of John's naked body pressed warm and hard against his own had segued into thoughts of being intimate with John. For the first time since he was in University, Sherlock was imagining another human being in a sexual manner.

He pictured John in the shower, those sure, steady hands roaming over warm, tanned skin; saw John stroke himself lightly, white teeth biting into his thin, reddened lips as he pleasured himself. Sherlock blinked and shook his head, attempting to dislodge those thoughts from his head, but the image of John erupting over his fist, Sherlock's name falling from his lips was seared deep into the detective's brain; and he hadn't even seen it yet.

Sherlock came back to the present when the roughness of a towel swiped across his skin. He stared at John, eyes focusing on the doctor as his hands move the towel back and forth. "John," he breathed, snapping his grey-green eyes to John's own navy.

"Yeah, Sherlock?" he asked.

A moment passed. Then two. And then, Sherlock moved forward, bending down to press his lips against John's ever so lightly, lingering even when John gasps but does not pull away. One of John's perfect hands raised to press gently at his cheek, not holding him there, but not pushing him away either.

John sighed when Sherlock broke the kiss, eyes snapping open to take in the detective. Sherlock looked hesitant and frightened, his brain, no doubt, firing at lightspeed to comprehend what just happened.

"Sherlock," John started, dropping his hand.

"Did I do it wrong?" Sherlock asked, furrowing his eyebrows together.

John smiled reassuringly at the detective. "No, you didn't. Come here."

And then, John was kissing Sherlock again, his lips gliding warmly against Sherlock's. John slowed the pace when he felt Sherlock but a moment later, his lips were parting for Sherlock's tongue as it licked a firm stripe across John's bottom lip.

The inside of Sherlock's mouth was hot and wet and tasted like stale tea. In short, it was the best thing John had ever felt, and he wanted more of it, more of his flatmate. Snaking his arms around Sherlock's neck, John pulled the other man closer, pressing their bodies together, moaning softly against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock pressed back eagerly, mouth opening for John's tongue. The kiss was making him lightheaded and dizzy and yet, Sherlock wanted more. They stood there in the bathroom, lips and tongues sliding against each other, for what felt like seconds. When John broke the kiss, he rested his head against Sherlock's, a wide, uninhibited smile splitting his face.

"We've missed our reservation," he commented, nuzzling his nose against Sherlock's.

"I suppose we'll have to find dinner elsewhere," Sherlock said.

John hummed contentedly, fingers stroking at the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Why don't we get dressed and nip down to the pub a block or two over? They smelled like they had good shepherd's pie."

Sherlock nodded. "That would be acceptable. So long as it's straight to bed when we get back."

"Straight to bed?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Perhaps we could continue this kissing experiment then," Sherlock offered before bending to press a gentle kiss to John's lips.

John hummed in agreement. "Sounds like a plan."


	3. Day Three

**Here's the prompt for the third day: First Time. Just a warning: there is explicit sex here. Hope you all enjoy it. Cheers**

* * *

It's been three months since their first kiss, and John was happy to formally announce that Sherlock Holmes was his boyfriend, thank you very much. They'd really been in a relationship for much longer- _about three years, love_ his inner Mrs. Hudson supplied- but both had been too dense to see it.

Waking up pressed against a warm, still-sleeping Sherlock made John smile. Glancing at the clock, John knew Sherlock would still sleep for another half hour at least. That was just enough time to make a decent breakfast and put some tea on.

Slipping out of his room, John spared one last lingering look at Sherlock, smiling softly at his boyfriend. Down in the kitchen, John puttered around. He fried eggs and bacon, and was halfway through a batch of french toast when Sherlock finally stumbled down the stairs, clothed only in his pants and John's dressing gown.

"Morning," John chirped, turning to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek as he shuffled over for his tea.

Sherlock hummed in reply and sipped from his tea mug, smiling softly at John.

"Breakfast is nearly ready, but there's time for a quick shower if you want to take one," John commented, flipping over the french toast.

Sherlock hummed again and retreated to his bathroom. The water pipes rattled a moment later, and John couldn't help the smile that turned the corner of his lips.

Last night had been a big night for them. After months- _years, love, years_ his inner Mrs. Hudson amended- of flirting and dancing around each other, Sherlock and John had finally come together and expressed their love for each other in the most basic and primal way.

It had started out with a date; an honest to goodness date. They had dressed up, John in his nicest jumper, Sherlock in his favourite plum shirt, and they had gone out to Angelo's. It was the first time the man hadn't automatically run for a candle, and John couldn't help but laugh at his expression when Sherlock had casually asked for one.

The food that night had been exceptional. Upon Sherlock's request for the candle, Angelo had taken their menus, filled their wine glasses, and told them, "I'll take care of everything! Don't worry, Sherlock, it's on the house. For you and for your date!" Sherlock had smiled gratefully and reached across the table to rest his hand on top of John's.

The meal Angelo gave them was fantastic, a small cup of minestrone soup started their feast followed by a portobello mushroom ravioli in a herbed cream sauce. Their meat course was a pan-seared veal cutlet served with roasted asparagus and parsnips, followed by twin macchiatos and a rather large piece of tiramisu with two forks for dessert. By the time they had strolled back to Baker Street, John was stuffed and very content to spend the rest of the evening sprawled on the couch with Sherlock as they watched crap telly.

The mood changed when Sherlock shut and locked the door behind him. He helped John from his coat and ushered him to the couch, pulling him close when they were settled. They made it half way through an episode of Top Gear before Sherlock was pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down John's neck…

"_Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, shifting to look at his partner._

"_I'm kissing you, John. Clearly you could tell," Sherlock replied, pressing another kiss to John's jaw. _

_John sighed softly at the attention, arching his neck to allow Sherlock more room. Taking the cue, Sherlock pressed his lips to the dip in John's collarbone, sucking softly at his tanned skin._

"_Sherlock," John breathed, hands reaching to tangle in dark, curly hair._

"_Yes, John?" Sherlock asked, wrapping his arms around John's body, pulling him as close as he could._

"_If you don't stop, we'll have to take this to the bedroom," John warned, turning to place a kiss on the detective's lips. _

_Sherlock hummed and kissed back, hands slipping down to rest just over the swell of John's arse. "I think," he murmured, breaking the kiss to breathe in John's ear, "that it's time for bed, John."_

_It took them a good fifteen minutes to make it all the way up to John's room, but as soon as they were through the threshold, John was kissing Sherlock, hands pushing him towards the bed. "John, stop for a minute," Sherlock murmured, gently pushing John away when the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed._

_Obediently, John took a step back and took a moment to steady his breath. The attempt was futile though, seeing as his breathing stopped completely when Sherlock's hands rose and swiftly unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off his shoulders with ease._

"_Sherlock," John whispered, eyes raking over the detective's form. "Christ, you're beautiful."_

_Sherlock smiled softly and ran his hands over his naked chest, bringing them to rest heavily on the waistband of his trousers. "John?" he started._

"_Hmmm?" John replied._

"_Take yours off, too," he said, popping the button_

"_Are you sure?" John asked, shucking off his jumper._

"_Very sure. As appealing as some people find having sex half-clothed, I'd rather like to have you naked."_

_John froze, his shirt hanging halfway off his frame. "What?" he asked._

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, John. I want to have sex. I think we've waited long enough," he replied._

_The rest of John's clothes came off in a hurry, his trousers and shirt puddled on the ground before he climbed on the bed after Sherlock. They laid there for a few moments, hands wandering across now-familiar skin as their lips glided against each other. When Sherlock broke the kiss to paw at John's pants, John couldn't hold back a throaty moan as the tips of Sherlock's fingers brushed against his erection._

"_Jesus Christ," John breathed, hands clutching at Sherlock's shoulders. _

"_Just Sherlock will do, John," Sherlock commented, bending to nip at the doctor's collarbone._

_John's hands flew to grope at Sherlock's arse, a broken moan tumbling from the detective's lips. "You like that?" he asked, pulling Sherlock as close as he could._

"_Yes, John. Love it when you touch me like that," Sherlock murmured, grinding his hips down against John's. They rocked together like that, lips kissing any skin they could find, John's hands kneading the perfect globes of Sherlock's perfect arse, erections grinding together in a steady pace. _

"_Sherlock, stop," John groaned, his hands dropping to his sides._

_Sherlock groaned in frustration, his hips stuttering as he stilled. "What's wrong?" he asked, eyes snapping to look over John's face. "Am I doing something wrong?"_

_John shook his head. "No. I just don't want it to end like this. I'd very much like to be inside you, Sherlock," he replied, hands rising to bracket Sherlock's angular hips._

_Sherlock froze as he took in the meaning of John's words. _

"_Or, you could be inside me, if you'd prefer," John offered, rubbing circles into Sherlock flesh._

_Sherlock shook his head. "I want you inside me, John," he murmured, bending to kiss the doctor deeply, his right hand reaching for the half-used bottle of lube in their bedside drawers. _

_John flipped them over just as Sherlock's fingers wrapped around the bottle of lube, pulling a gasped moan from his lover's throat. Gently, John kissed his way down Sherlock's chest, lingering to lick and suck at his nipples. When he reached the elastic of Sherlock's pants, he pressed a chaste kiss to the head of his very prominent erection. Before Sherlock could complain about John taking too long, John had pulled the piece of clothing from his body in one go and was looking at Sherlock as if he was made of porcelain._

_Sherlock coloured under John's gaze and squirmed as his lover's eyes raked over his body. Never before had Sherlock felt so exposed to someone, never had felt quite this vulnerable._

"_Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You are so stunning," John murmured, leaning over his body to press a kiss to his lips. _

_Sherlock melted against John as he kissed back enthusiastically. He moaned into John's mouth when the doctor leaned forward and pressed their hips together once more. He could feel the evidence of John's desire pressed hot and hard against his erection. I_

"_Is there any reason you're still wearing pants?" Sherlock huffed, breaking their kiss._

"_Haven't had time to take them off," John countered, pulling back to shimmy out of his underwear. _

_Sherlock hummed in pleasure when John returned to his previous position, pressing his body flush against Sherlock's. With a smirk, he wrapped Sherlock's legs around his waist and rocked against his lover's lithe body, bending to nip at Sherlock's ear._

"_I'm going to take you, just like this," he murmured. "But first, I'm going to work my fingers into you, one at a time, until you beg for me to push inside you."_

_Sherlock moaned helplessly, fingers scrabbling for purchase on John's back._

"_When I'm finally inside you," John continued, lowering his head to lick a stripe up Sherlock's neck, "I'm going to take you apart slowly. I'll have you like this for hours, Sherlock. Hours. And when you finally cum, you won't even remember your name, only mine."_

_Sherlock arched up against John, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. "Please, John. I need you," he breathed._

_John chuckled, his chest rumbling pleasantly against Sherlock's as he pulled away. Pressing a chaste kiss over Sherlock's heart, he took great pleasure in the way his lover's body bowed at the first brush of his fingertip against his opening. "Good?" he asked, pulling back to study Sherlock's expression._

"_Very good," he confirmed, spreading his legs a little bit wider._

_John smiled, nipped the skin of Sherlock's hip, and popped the lube open, squirting a fair amount on his fingers. Gently, he circled a finger at Sherlock's puckered opening, easing the first ring of muscles. When Sherlock relaxed and bucked back against his hand, John pushed in slowly, watching every expression flit across his partner's face._

_Sherlock's head was thrown back against his pillow, dark curls spreading out like a halo. His mouth was hanging open, his tongue swiping across his plush, kiss-bruised lips to wet them. He was gorgeous, and John couldn't wait to see what gorgeous expressions Sherlock would make as he made love to him._

_One finger was quickly upgraded to two, John pumping them steadily in and out of Sherlock's body. He was surprised at how quickly Sherlock seemed to open up to him, how his arse seemed to greedily swallow his fingers. Sherlock was hot and slick and soft inside, and much tighter than any woman John had ever been with. He knew that his lover would fit around him like a glove, and John couldn't stop the moan that fell from his lips as he pressed a third finger deep inside Sherlock._

"_Please, John," Sherlock breathed, hands fisting into the sheets. "I need you in me. Now."_

_Sherlock moaned in disappointment when John eased his fingers from his body. It seemed to take an eternity for John to find and put on a condom, but it was worth it when John bent down and kissed him deeply, lining up the head of his cock to his entrance._

_John broke the kiss and pressed his length forward, biting his lip hard as he pushed slowly into Sherlock. He watched as Sherlock fell apart under him, legs wrapping ungodly tight around his hips as he stilled, fully seated inside his lover. John grit his teeth as Sherlock's channel clenched rhythmically around him, and he moaned loudly when he realized that the clenching was echoing Sherlock's _heartbeat_. John wasn't sure quite how long he held still, but it didn't matter when Sherlock begged him to move, his voice broken and cracked with pleasure._

_They rocked together, John barely moving at first, both relishing in the fact that they were finally together. John bent over and pressed his lips against Sherlock's , their kiss a messy amalgamation of tongues and teeth and heated breath. Just as he promised, John took Sherlock apart, one slow thrust at a time, slowly driving the two of them towards orgasm._

"_John, I'm so close," Sherlock murmured._

"_Me too, love," John replied, blinking a bead of sweat out of his eye._

"_John, _please_," Sherlock begged._

"_Please what?" John asked._

"_I need to cum. Please, John. Please."_

_John smiled and bent down to kiss Sherlock. "Then cum, love. Cum with me," he whispered against Sherlock's lips._

_Sherlock came hard, his body bowing in half, cock spilling his release over his chest and John's. It felt like every nerve ending in his body had lit itself on fire, like pleasure had taken the place of his blood as it pumped through his veins. John's name fell from his lips in a garbled moan, and then, John was cumming too._

_John's hips stuttered, snapping his cock deep inside his lover as he came. Sherlock's cock gave one last, valiant twitch between them, a heavy bead of cum dribbling from his slit as John's cock throbbed inside him. John collapsed on top of his lover, smiling as a familiar heavy feeling settled into his bones. Sherlock felt so amazing, surely he wouldn't mind if John dozed for a bit right here…_

"John?" Sherlock called, shaking the doctor's shoulder.

John blinked owlishly at the kitchen stove as he became aware of his surroundings. Kitchen stove. Fuck, he'd lost himself in his memories of last night and forgotten about their breakfast. "Hmmm?" he hummed.

"You've set the french toast on fire, John," Sherlock commented, reaching around him to snag a piece of bacon. "Might want to put it out."

Eyes widening, John took in the small grease fire in his favourite pan and lunged for the fire extinguisher, a stream of loud profanities spewing from his mouth.

After the fire was put out and the rest of breakfast was on the kitchen table, Sherlock spoke up. "What were you doing that distracted you so much?" he asked.

John blushed. "Er, I was reminiscing about last night," he admitted, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth. "I got a little distracted."

Sherlock smirked. "Last night was quite enjoyable, John," he commented, nicking a bite of eggs off of John's plate. "In fact, I wouldn't be opposed to a reenactment this morning."

John's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "Yeah?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled and winked at him. "Oh yes, John. Although, I wouldn't mind being inside you this time. Is that acceptable?"

John stood abruptly from the table, grabbed Sherlock's hand, and pulled him towards the stairs. "Yes," he said, hauling his lover up the stairs. "Oh god, yes."


	4. Day Four

**Here's day four of the prompt set: Masturbation! As always, I hope this chapter finds you well!**

**Also, a big thank you to johnlockbbclover. You always have such kind words for me, and I appreciate your feedback! Cheers!**

* * *

On Saturday, John woke at 7:15, just like he had for the last five days. Keeping with his established routine, he lazed in bed until 7:20, then rose to clean his teeth, have a shave, and shower. After his shower, John dried off thoroughly and deviated from his routine, laying back on his bed, stretching out over the duvet. Sherlock had been in case mode for five days straight, and John had done his best to suppress his libido since he couldn't be intimate with his partner. But, after the third morning waking alone, (Sherlock scoffed at his morning wood and moved peruse his Mind Palace downstairs on the couch) John was determined to take matters into his own hands.

Taking his time, John started at his collarbone, enjoying the rough calluses of his fingers as they dragged down his shower-warmed skin. It had been a while since he'd had the opportunity to enjoy himself, and he was going to take advantage of it, going to catalogue the differences between his touch and Sherlock's.

Slowly, John slid his hands down to his nipples, pinching and pulling at the sensitive nubs, sighing softly as he felt them pebble under his fingertips. Sherlock never touched him this way, he mused, gripping his nipples and twisting. His breath hitched when the first warm pulse of pleasure pain shot through him, a surprised half-moan falling from his lips.

It had been a while since John had indulged his inner masochist. Raking his nails down his chest to pinch at the tender skin of his inner thighs, John realized that it had been far too long. Letting his eyes flutter shut, John wrapped a sturdy hand around his thick erection and pumped slowly, hissing at the deliciously harsh glide of his dry hand against his cock.

It didn't take long for a bead of precum to ooze from the slit of his cock, and John moaned at the slight slickness it provided. His strokes were still rough, and he knew he'd probably be chafed and sore for a day or two, but the small prickle of pain tainting his haze of pleasure was worth it.

John groaned and let his mind wander, his imagination replacing his hand with Sherlock's, let memories of his partner's sultry baritone color his fantasy. "Sherlock," he groaned, arching his hips into the tight heat of his fist.

Down in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was startled from his mind palace when he heard his name being called. Wait, no. It wasn't a normal call of his name, it was someone _moaning _his name. And the only person in the flat was John, so it had to be him. _Oh_. John was moaning his name. Case promptly forgotten, Sherlock rose from the couch and climbed the stairs, making sure to miss the squeaky tread four from the top.

Sherlock made sure to quiet his breathing as he approached John's partially open door. His eyes widened as he took in his lover, splayed out on his back, hand wrapped around his very hard cock, face and upper chest covered in the most delicious flush. Sherlock licked his lips and got comfortable, leaning against the doorway as he continued to watch John.

It was mesmerizing, watching John pleasure himself. It surprised Sherlock that John liked a harder touch, rougher sex, and some pain with his pleasure. After all his time in the service, and the numerous injuries he no doubt experienced, Sherlock had assumed that John would prefer a gentle hand. Watching as John's nails raised temporary red welts on his thighs, hips, and chest, Sherlock was forced to admit that he was wrong.

John was stroking faster now, sliding his right hand down past his perineum to press against his entrance, moans falling freely from between his red, bitten lips. When he had started, he had tried to be quiet so as not to disturb Sherlock, but when his fingers pressed ever so slightly inside his arse, John found that he no could no longer hold it back.

Sherlock didn't notice the moment his hand had slipped into his pajama trousers, nor was he aware when his fingers wrapped loosely around his erection. He did, however, notice the moment John's name fell breathily from his lips, the action causing the doctor's eyes snapping open and locking with his a heartbeat later.

"Sherlock?" John asked, hands stilling mid-stroke.

"God, John, don't stop," Sherlock replied, pushing his trousers down his hips just enough so he could pull his cock above the waistband. He took a moment to lick the palm of his hand messily before he started stroking again, head falling back to crack against the wooden doorframe.

Smirking, John continued where he left off, hand flying faster over his erection as one finger rubbed roughly at his perineum. "You're so hot like that, Sherlock. Standing there in the doorway touching yourself," John groaned, fucking his hips up to meet his fist. "I bet you heard me downstairs and couldn't help yourself."

Sherlock moaned deeply, his eyes frantically flicking back and forth from John's hand tugging on his cock to his face, taking in every little raised welt and red crescent-moon that littered his torso and legs. "Yes. Heard you call my name. Needed to - oh! - see what you were doing," he commented, leaning more against the doorway. "I wanna see you touch yourself, John. Wanna see you cum."

John came hard at Sherlock's words, his vision going fuzzy and white as his release arced impressively across his hands and chest. Sherlock followed soon after, cum splattering the floor and leaking down into the elastic of his pajamas. Seeing John come apart so thoroughly was more than Sherlock could take.

The two men were still for a few minutes, chests heaving as they caught their breath. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and righted his trousers, wiping his sticky hand against the leg. "Fascinating," he murmured, slipping backwards through the threshold.

John chuckled as he heard his lover plod down the stairs and drape himself back on the sofa. Taking a moment to stretch luxuriously, John smiled at the outcome of his decision. Although he didn't convince Sherlock to have sex with him this time, he did successfully distract the detective long enough to reach orgasm. Next time, he thought, rolling over on his side to doze. Next time, he'd distract Sherlock so thoroughly, he'd have to put the case on hold for at least one round.


	5. Day Five

**Here's the fifth installment of the NSFW OTP Challenge! Featuring blowjobs. I'm having a blast with this so far, and I'm so excited to get to work with some of the prompts later on. I hope you're enjoying reading this, as I'm having a grand time creating it. Cheers :)**

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As he barreled his way around a dark, dirty, alleyway corner, John cursed Sherlock colourfully in his head. He was sick of the detective always running off at the drop of a hat. It wasn't enough that his six foot frame allowed him a longer stride than John, but the taller man was also nearly silent as he moved, often disappearing a good thirty seconds or so before John even realized he was gone. They were supposed to be on a mild stake-out, tasked only with snapping a picture of their suspect, but as always, Sherlock had to deviate. As soon as the suspected murderer was separated from his companions, Sherlock had sprung off in a dead sprint after him, leaving John to charge after him, falling a good two blocks or so behind.

John's heart clenched painfully when he saw a body lying in the middle of the alleyway. Getting closer, John was able to keep it together when saw dark curls spilled over the cobblestone and a familiar, long coat open and ripped at the knees. It was the sight of glazed-over glasz eyes, however, that made him want to retch. "Oh god, Sherlock" he whispered, bending to rest his head over the taller man's chest. His heart was beating weakly, but his chest was still.

"I swear, Sherlock," John growled, tipping the detective's head back to clear his throat. "If you ever say that breathing is boring again, I'll bloody kill you." A moment later, John bent over and fused his lips to Sherlock's, breathing out as he pinched the detective's nose. He felt Sherlock's rib cage expand under his free hand and he allowed a spark of hope to flare inside him when Sherlock's lungs held the air for a few heartbeats before slowly deflating.

"Breath, you bloody great idiot," John murmured, breathing into Sherlock's mouth again. After the fourth artificial breath, Sherlock came to, rolled on his side, coughed violently, and gasped a lungful of air on his own. Seconds later, he was once again flat on his back, this time with one ex-army doctor straddling his hips as he pressed a handful of kisses to Sherlock's face.

"You are never allowed to run ahead of me ever again," John scolded, pulling back enough to take in the rest of Sherlock's injuries.

"The murderer was getting away, John. I'm not hurt, anyways," Sherlock huffed.

John fixed Sherlock with a glare, and rose from his position on the ground. "You weren't _breathing_, Sherlock. That's a pretty big deal on my end," he commented.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Breathing is bor-"

"Shut up," John growled, fisting his fingers in the bloodied lapel of Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the doctor, but fell silent under his gaze. He stared at John for a long moment, as if daring him to do something.

So John did something. He huffed and hauled the detective close, smashing their lips together in a brutal kiss, their breath mingling as teeth clacked and tongues licked into each other's mouth. It was rough and brutal and animalistic, a far cry from the almost tender way their mouths had melded when John was performing CPR.

The kiss was broken a few minutes later, the coppery tang of blood thick in their mouths. John steered Sherlock home, bypassing Lestrade with a particularly frightening glare. When they returned to their flat, John turned and pressed Sherlock against their door, slamming it shut with their bodies. His lips and teeth worked over the skin of Sherlock's neck as his hands peeled off layer after layer of grimy clothing. When Sherlock was naked, John fisted a hand in his hair and dragged him towards their armchairs, shoving down harshly. He watched, smirking, as Sherlock tumbled back into his chair, breath catching in surprise when his arse hit plush cushions.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked, watching as John slowly eased off his own clothes.

John didn't say anything, choosing instead to convey his intentions by sliding to his knees in front of Sherlock, hands sliding to push apart the detective's knees, making a space for himself. He peppered gentle kisses on the inside of Sherlock's knees and thighs, slowly working himself up to kiss the crown of Sherlock's hardening cock.

"I'm glad you're ok," John murmured, turning his head to look up at Sherlock as he nuzzled the tender skin of his inner thigh. "I just need to remind myself you're here, with me now."

Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded, running his hands to card through John's hair. "Do whatever you need, John. I'm sorry," he said.

John smiled and pressed one more chaste kiss to Sherlock's hipbones. He pulled back slightly, took a deep breath, and whistled low through his teeth as he was finally face to face with Sherlock's erection. Going slow, John licked a stripe up the bottom of Sherlock's cock, tongue tracing the vein throbbing just under the skin.

Sherlock gripped John's hair hard, hips pushing forward ever so slightly. "John, don't tease," he said, positioning the doctor's mouth just over the crown of his cock.

John's tongue darted out, flicking back and forth over the slit, a moan falling from his open mouth when he tasted his lover's salty pre-cum. The next moment, John wiggled closer and sunk his mouth down Sherlock's cock, taking in as much as he could. Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose and groaned, the noise curling around John like velvet smoke.

Wanting more, John relaxed his throat and pushed down even further, swallowing around his mouthful. Sherlock tasted hot and salty on his tongue, the weight of his cock oddly comforting after their failed stake-out. John chanced a look up at Sherlock through his lashes, and almost came at the sight. Sherlock's pupils were blown wide with lust, the usual mesmerizing quicksilver now nearly black with his arousal. His hair was matted and stuck to his forehead with sweat and grime. His plush lips were parted, tongue swiping out now and then to wet them, and his cheekbones and neck were flushed a delicious pink color. Sherlock looked completely debauched, and John vowed to make him fall apart completely.

Increasing his pace, John bobbed up and down Sherlock's cock, ignoring the uncomfortable burn as the crown of his lover's erection hit the back of his throat. John moaned when Sherlock's hands tightened painfully in his hair, hips stuttering forward to push his cock down John's throat until his nose was pressed against dark, curly pubic hair. John found refuge in the slight pain; it reminded him that Sherlock was indeed safe in their flat.

It wasn't long before Sherlock was spilling down his throat, John's name falling from his bitten lips, as John swallowed everything he was given, throat working around his lover's pulsating shaft. As Sherlock came down from his orgasm, John slipped off to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Sherlock made the best noises, John mused as he turned on the tap, and John knew he'd never have enough of Sherlock's sounds. One of these days, he was going to spend a whole day doing this, just so he could catalogue every single one of the scorching sounds his lover made. He wanted to hear Sherlock's voice break because John's tongue wasn't quite enough for him, wanted to hear the detective plead and pant as John sucked mark after mark into his sensitive skin, wanted to know what kind of gasp would be ripped from his lover's lips when John licked over his sensitive entrance.

Smirking, John finished cleaning his teeth and returned to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Sherlock was still sitting naked in his chair, nattering on about some experiment or another. Chuckling softly, John gazed affectionately at Sherlock. The man was so focused on his experiments, always doing something to various body parts and organs. John, being a man of science, could appreciate an experiment as much as the next man. As much as he liked measuring the decomposition rates of fingers when stored in jam, he definitely preferred experiments that were of a more divergent nature. Remembering his thoughts from the bathroom, John realized he didn't get to indulge in his own experiments as often as he liked. Taking the first sip of tea from his mug, John decided that he'd have to change that, and soon.


	6. Day Six

**Here's the sixth day's prompt: Clothed while getting off. Just a heads up, this chapter and the next will likely be back to back. This is due to the fact that they're very closely related (as you'll probably be able to tell when you get to the end of the chapter). I hope you enjoy this installment, and I'll see you (hopefully) very soon with chapter seven. Cheers.**

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They had just wrapped up a case. Sherlock had spent the rest of their evening eating enough Thai takeaway for two people, buzzing around their flat with the box and chopsticks in his hands. As soon as he was done eating, Sherlock had retreated to his bedroom and promptly fell asleep.

When John went to check on him a good two hours later, Sherlock was sprawled in the middle of the bed, still dressed in his now-wrinkled suit. John spent approximately seventeen seconds lingering in Sherlock's doorway before he stepped backwards and closed the door quietly, heading up to his own bedroom. Minutes later, he was upstairs in his bed, drifting off to sleep.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, Sherlock had burst into John's room, his clothes half divested from his body, spouting some nonsense about an experiment or two. To be honest, John wasn't quite sure what Sherlock really said, he was only half paying attention. John attempted to listen dutifully for a few minutes while the detective worked out what he was going to do, and he fell right back asleep after Sherlock staggered out of his bedroom, presumingly to relocate at the kitchen table amongst his flasks, slides, and microscope.

When John woke the next morning, he stretched and puttered down to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. He did a double take when he realized that Sherlock was not at the table like he had predicted, but was instead, sprawled out on the couch, hands steepled under his chin, eyes pinned to the ceiling as if his gaze was the only thing preventing the roof from caving in. "Good morning," John murmured quietly, smiling briefly at his flatmate before going about making breakfast for the two of them. Sherlock remained silent.

Sherlock was watching him. Of that, John was sure. Although he never caught the detective in the act, he could feel Sherlock's eyes boring little, hot holes into his back. Shaking his head, John did his best to ignore the consulting detective as he got ready for his shift at the clinic. He took his time as he readied himself for the day, fixed and ate a leisurely breakfast, and then slipped into the bathroom for an unhurried shave.

Out of all the steps to get ready in the morning, John liked his morning shower the best. He wasn't sure why he liked it so much, but to John, a long, hot shower was luxurious. He let his hands drift over his body and wrap around his cock, stroking himself slowly to full hardness. Pleasure washed around John, slow and warm, like the steady burning of a fireplace. It curled in his belly, and stretched tight across his shoulders, cramped in his thighs, burned across his cheeks and neck. The slick slide of his hand, steadily bringing him closer to orgasm, was just what he needed, especially after last night.

Sherlock was acting strangely, John mused, hips bucking into his hand. The detective would normally still be asleep, or at least still in bed, preferably with his legs wrapped in a vice around John's waist. Biting his lip, John squeezed gently around the base of his cock. He did his best to muffle his moans, breath falling unevenly from his chapped, bitten lips. John spilled over his hand a moment later, Sherlock's name sweet on his lips.

After his orgasm, the rest of John's morning passed by quickly. He finished his shower, dried off, and dressed himself for work, choosing his favourite cream colored, cabled jumper. When he emerged from the bathroom, hair still damp, Sherlock's eyes zeroed in on him, his gaze slowly sliding up and down his frame. John cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock and went about tugging on his shoes and coat while his to-go mug of tea brewed on the counter.

"I'll be back sometime after five, Sherlock. Please try not to blow up the flat with your experiments," John said, zipping up his coat.

Sherlock hummed lazily in response.

John sighed and retrieved his mug. "Well, I'm off then. Try and get some sleep if you can."

A heartbeat later, John's tea mug is back on the counter. Three heartbeats later, John found himself pinned back against the counter, a spatula digging uncomfortably into his back. Six heartbeats later, John forgot about the spatula, the entirety of his brain focused on the feeling of Sherlock's lips pressed unyieldingly against his own. Naturally, John kissed back, gently pressing his lips against Sherlock's in a chaste goodbye kiss.

John's breath hitched as Sherlock pressed in closer, his tongue darting forward to lick into John's mouth, swiping deliciously across his hard palate. Sherlock's body was flush with John's, and in a moment, John was overwhelmed by his partner, senses working on overdrive in an attempt to take in everything about the detective snogging him within an inch of his life.

John broke the kiss to catch his breath, hands anchoring themselves on Sherlock's shoulders. "Sherlock, not that I'm not appreciative, but what was that all about?" he asked, looking up into glassy, quicksilver eyes.

"Experiment, John," Sherlock mumbled, leaning in to press his lips against John's once more. "I need more data."

John froze and pushed Sherlock away, furrowing his eyebrows. "I'm not an experiment, Sherlock," he scolded.

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. "I know. Not using you as an experiment, John. Merely as an aid to one. It has come to my attention that I've missed out on a lot of experiences most men have had, and I'm rather curious."

"Curious about what, Sherlock? What could constitute pinning me to the kitchen counter and snogging me senseless?" John asked.

Sherlock blinked a few times at John. "Rutting, John," he answered, grinding his growing erection against John's hip in emphasis. "I've never rutted against anyone until the point of orgasm before. I'm meant to believe it's pleasurable, and I want to try."

John was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching Sherlock's. He nodded once, chuckled softly, and pulled Sherlock close, capturing the detective's mouth in a scorching kiss. Knowing he would potentially be late for work, John used his extensive knowledge on Sherlock and pulled out all the stops. He read his partner's pants and moans like a textbook, knowing just when to suck gently on Sherlock's tongue, knowing when to bite and tug on his ridiculously plump lower lip, knowing when to snake his hands down to Sherlock's arse and squeeze.

When Sherlock was pliant, John pushed his hand down Sherlock's trousers and rubbed his erection through his pants. Sherlock moaned wantonly in his ear, and John shivered. "This is what you wanted, isn't it, hmm?" John murmured, nipping at Sherlock's earlobe, drawing another obscene moan from kiss-swollen lips.

"Yes, John," Sherlock panted, leaning his head against John's shoulder, breath falling in hot puffs against John's neck.

"Good," John said, dipping his hand beneath cotton pants to wrap his fingers around Sherlock's thick erection, pumping his hand up and down his lover's shaft.

Sherlock's cock was hot and heavy in his hand, the tip already winking out bead after bead of precum. The slight slickness made for a smoother touch, but at this point, John wasn't sure Sherlock would have cared one way or the other. The detective sounded wrecked, his voice breaking every other breathy moan, hips stuttering forward into John's hand.

John's cock twitched in interest when Sherlock groaned his name reverently, simultaneously a plea for more and a warning of what was to come. John hummed contentedly, stroking faster, squeezing his fist ever so slightly tighter around Sherlock. Four strokes later, orgasm washed over Sherlock, his cum spurting hard all over John's hand and the inside of his cotton pants.

John pulled away as Sherlock caught his breath, wiping the sticky mess on Sherlock's sleeping trousers. "Is that enough for now, you insatiable beast?" he asked.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, his eyes dazed. "For now, yes. You can go to work now, John," he replied, voice unnaturally soft.

John leaned in and kissed Sherlock softly, one hand carding affectionately through his lover's dark curls. "Shall I pick anything up on the way home?"

Sherlock was pensive for a moment, head turning slightly to the side as he racked his Mind Palace for an answer. "I'll think about it," he replied. "If I come up with anything, I'll text you."

John nodded, pressed one more lingering kiss to Sherlock's forehead, and headed out the door. Four hours later on his lunch break, John was halfway through his sandwich when his phone chirped.

12:47 Bring home your doctor's coat. I need it for an experiment. - SH


	7. Day Seven

**Here's the seventh day's prompt: Dressed/naked. I know you're not technically supposed to do two fills in one day, but since I'm a bit behind, I figured it would be ok. :) If you haven't read chapter six, please backtrack and do that now. Cheers.**

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It took Sherlock precisely five minutes and thirteen seconds to come to the realization that he did not like the feeling of soiled pants. With a grimace, he trudged into his bathroom, peeled off the sticky garment, and went about cleaning his residual release from his body. When he was satisfied with his level of cleanliness, Sherlock dressed in clean pajama trousers and his dressing gown and promptly sprawled across his bed, drifting off to sleep as John had instructed.

When he woke a few hours later, Sherlock's mind was swimming with different ways to experiment with John. While he hadn't been a virgin when he met John, he was by no means experienced. Sherlock lost himself to his Mind Palace for an hour before he made a decision on what he wanted to try next. Firing off a quick text to John, Sherlock went about planning for his next experiment.

The first thing on Sherlock's list was to visit the pharmacy, taking care to pick up any supplies he thought John might want. After he checked out, he stopped by Angelo's on the way home for a carton of soup and a dish of pasta for dinner. John always like Angelo's pasta.

When Sherlock arrived back at his flat, he put away the food and went about binning some of his more expired experiments. When he was satisfied that John would be pleased with the state of their kitchen, Sherlock ate half his soup and went to lie on his bed once more, drifting off in a doze.

He woke again roughly two hours before John was due home. With a smile, Sherlock rose and headed into the bathroom and set everything up. He spent a long time there, enjoying the way the room heated and steamed over as he cleaned himself thoroughly. An hour later, Sherlock was finally satisfied that he was entirely clean, and drained the bath. He dried himself quickly and returned to his room, laying the slightly damp towel out on top of the sheets before laying on top of it.

Retrieving the lubricant from the top drawer of his bedside table, Sherlock shivered as he popped the cap and squirted some of the viscous liquid onto his fingers. Breath hitching, Sherlock rolled onto his side and rubbed one, slick finger against his entrance. He gasped and bit his lip as one slim finger pushed inside, sinking past his clenching muscles to tease against his prostate. Taking a few steady, deep breaths, Sherlock paced himself. There would be little use in orgasming too early; it would ruin his experiment.

Letting his eyes drift shut, he continued to stretch himself, adding two, then three fingers to his entrance. When he was ready, Sherlock's hand dove back into the bedside table drawer and pulled out a black, slim butt plug. Biting back a moan, Sherlock slowly worked it in, fucking it in and out of his arse a few times for good measure. Satisfied he was prepared enough, Sherlock rose and took his towel to the hamper, whimpering as the plug shifted and brushed against his prostate. By the time he made it back to his bed, Sherlock's cock was fully hard. Laying down one last time on top of the sheets, Sherlock gave his erection a few tugs, hoping John would be home soon.

When John arrived home, still dressed in his white doctor's coat, he could tell something was off as soon as the door clicked shut behind him. At first glance, things at Baker Street looked normal, but when John reached the kitchen, he _knew_ Sherlock was up to something. He saw it in the cleaned kitchen table, observed it in the way that everything was put away, heard it in the soft rustling from Sherlock's bedroom. _Oh_. As silently as he could, John made his way down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, pausing just outside the door for a brief moment before opening it. Upon seeing the contents of the room, his curious mind screeched to a halt and self-destructed, all thoughts deserted to make room for the exquisite picture Sherlock made.

His lover was spread out on top of his bed, hard cock flushed red as he fisted it lazily. Sherlock's hair was damp- likely from a shower, his mind supplied- and his face, ears, and torso were all flushed a rosy pink. His dusky nipples were pebbled, jutting out from his slim, heaving chest. He caught a glimpse of the black silicone plug when his lover spread his legs ever so slightly, a smirk turning up the corners of his deliciously plump lips that were begging to be kissed.

"John," Sherlock breathed, squeezing the base of his weeping cock. "_Fuck me_."

John blinked a few times as he soaked in his lover's words, and then he was moving, toeing off his shoes and undoing the fly of his trousers. Still dressed, John climbed on the bed with Sherlock and gently eased the plug from his stretched hole, his cock throbbing at the needy whine torn from his lover's throat.

The plug fell to the bed, and John was mesmerized. Sherlock's hole was slick, red, and puffy, clenching around air, as if begging to be filled. "Condom?" he asked. John wrapped strong fingers around Sherlock's thighs and pulled, spreading his lover's legs and bringing their hips together.

"Don't want one, John. Now, for god's sake, fuck me!" Sherlock replied, angling his hips to line his arse up with John's cock. The two looked at each other for a long moment, and then, after a minute nod from Sherlock, John was pushing in, moaning deep in his chest as he filled his lover. Sherlock wasn't loose, per say, but he wasn't vice-grip tight, either. He was perfect around John's cock, perfectly hot, perfectly slick, and just loose enough John could fuck him hard and fast.

John's hips slapped harshly against Sherlock's the sound pulling a deep growl in his chest. He knew that they'd both have bruises come morning, but in his current state of mind, John found that he didn't care; judging from Sherlock's previous actions, he, took would not be opposed.

The climb to orgasm was a long one, John pounding into Sherlock, revelling in all the broken sounds his lover made. "God, Sherlock," he growled, thrusting brutally into to the taller man. "You love this don't you? Love my hard cock inside you."

"Yes, John. Feels so good," Sherlock breathed.

John smirked and paused his movements, stopping buried deep inside his flatmate. He chuckled as he watched Sherlock squirm and pant under him, the pale back arching impressively as he tried to push his hips up into John's, tried to push John further into his body. "This is part of your experiment, isn't it?" he asked, hands squeezing Sherlock's hips.

The detective nodded, wild eyes locking onto John's.

"And what is this one about?" John asked, bending to suck one of Sherlock's nipples into his mouth.

"It's about having sex- oh!- in various states of undress!" Sherlock replied, hands reaching to fist tightly in John's hair as he worried a nipple between his teeth.

John hummed and rocked his hips slowly, grinding into Sherlock. "It's good, isn't it?" he purred, working his way up to suck a mark just below the taller man's collar bone. "Makes it seem more dangerous, doesn't it?"

Sherlock was nearly sobbing with need, head nodding frantically as his hands gripped the sheets hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "Yes, John. Please, I'm so close. Fuck me and make me cum," he replied.

John chuckled again and thrust in again sharply. "As you wish, love," he murmured, pressing a filthy kiss to Sherlock's lips. The kiss ended when John resumed his brutal pace, pounding as hard and fast as he could into his lover, groaning as Sherlock clenched rhythmically around him. "I'm not going to last much longer," he admitted, hips stuttering.

Sherlock replied with a litany of John's name, a few tears welling up at the corner of his eyes. Glasz and navy locked as the John and Sherlock lost themselves more and more in a wave of pleasure. "Please, John," Sherlock panted, hands reaching to grab on to his lover.

"God, love. Cum with me," John growled, thrusting once, twice, three times, into Sherlock's body. Orgasm slammed into Sherlock, tendrils of pleasure burning across his body as he came, channel clenching down hard around John's cock. He shouted John's name when he felt John spill hotly inside him. Everything went white hot and then Sherlock was slumping back against his pillows, body boneless as his chest heaved to gasp in air.

John collapsed on top of him a moment later, lingering there for a long moment. When John had caught his breath, he gingerly pulled out of his lover, humming sympathetically at his whine of protest. "Shhh, I'm just going to get a flannel so we can clean up," he murmured, pausing to press a tender kiss against Sherlock's sweaty forehead. After they were cleaned up, John sat on the end of the bed, eyes locked on Sherlock's lax form.

"How was the experiment?" John asked, hand resting gently on Sherlock's forearm.

"It was amazing," Sherlock replied, rolling about the bed and stretching.

"Amazing, eh?" John chuckled. "I'm glad."

Sherlock smiled. "Obviously. Shall we have dinner now?"

John cocked an eyebrow. "Dinner? You're asking to eat?" he asked.

"Mmhhmm. I've had a rather… _strenuous_ day, John. I need to keep up my strength if I'm going to be doing rigorous activities on a regular basis," he replied, sitting up gingerly. "Besides, I picked up that pasta you like from Angelo's earlier. It would be a pity if we didn't eat it."

John smiled and pressed a lingering to Sherlock's lips. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Believe me, John," Sherlock breathed. "It was definitely my pleasure."


	8. Day Eight

**Here's the eighth day's prompt: Skype sex. Another shout out to johnlockbbclover who, graciously, fed me a few ideas for this chapter. I hope you all enjoy it, and that this chapter finds you well. Cheers!**

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America. Sherlock was in bloody America. Doing a favour for Mycroft. Alone, per his instructions. That is to say that Sherlock, for the first time in a very long while, was without his conductor of light. Naturally, Sherlock was unhappy, and he was very, _very_ good at letting Mycroft's men know just how unhappy he was, how wrong and idiotic they were, and how the case would have been solved already if John had been allowed to come. But no, the British Government didn't agree with him, and thus, John was at home, likely sleeping peacefully in their bed in Baker Street while Sherlock was doing legwork in bloody America.

When Sherlock returned to his room at a local hotel, he was incredibly pleased to find out he had internet connection. Transatlantic phone calls are incredibly expensive, but, he thought with a smirk, he could always use the internet to call John. Sherlock climbed into bed and sat cross-legged with his back against the headboard, laptop in his lap. Fingers flying over the keys and touchpad, he booted up Skype and placed a video call to John. Even though he'd only been gone just over three days, he missed his lover immensely, not that he'd ever admit that to anyone who wasn't John.

Back in Baker Street, John was startled awake when his computer started playing music at him. Lunging for his computer, he groaned when he saw the incoming video call from Sherlock. Begrudgingly, he answered it and climbed back in bed, nestling under the covers as Sherlock poked and prodded at the camera and microphone duo on his end.

"Yes, I can see and hear you. No, the connection isn't spotty. Now, what is it, Sherlock? Not that I'm not happy to hear from you, love, but it _is_ four in the morning here," John mumbled, running a hand through his hair.

Sherlock stared at his lover and took in his appearance. John was naked from the waist up and had red blanket lines pressed all over his chest and upper arms. His eyes were deliciously hazy, and his hair was sticking up every which direction, giving the impression that he'd been fucked seven ways from Sunday. Sherlock's mouth went dry when John stretched, strong arms extending above his head, his whole torso rising, allowing Sherlock to see the smallest amount of John's sleep trousers. His eyes locked onto the semi-prominent bulge at the top of John's trousers, and Sherlock's thoughts froze when as he understood that John, despite it being some ungodly hour in Britain, had morning wood.

"Sherlock, you ok?" John asked, leaning closer to the camera.

Sherlock blinked owlishly and nodded, swallowing thickly around nothing.

"Well then, did you need something, or can I go back to bed and talk with you in a few hours? I don't have work at the clinic today, so anytime after eight am here I'll be free," he asked, yawning again.

"I do need something, yes," Sherlock replied, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"And what would that be, love?" John asked.

Sherlock's eyes darkened as his pupils dilated, breath falling hot from his slightly parted mouth "You, John. I need you."

John smirked and leaned forward, coming closer to the camera. "And what do you need from me, Sherlock?" he asked.

"I need for you to touch yourself," Sherlock replied, voice low and husky with arousal.

John winked at Sherlock through the camera and adjusted the camera so his lover could see more of his body. Slowly, he rested his palm on his erection and palmed it, groaning softly as pleasure started to build in his belly. "Like this, love?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Just like that, John. Nice and slow, just like I'd do it if I was there," he replied.

John moaned softly and ground against his hand. "I wish you were here, Sherlock, wish it was your hands touching me," he murmured, spreading his legs. "Wish I could touch you, too. Want to wrap my fingers around your thick cock and feel you moan into my mouth."

Sherlock's cock twitched in his pants and hardened, tenting his trousers obscenely. Of course, John noticed it, eyes snapping to focus on his lover's erection. "Look at that, we have a matching set," he commented with a chuckle.

Sherlock flushed, his breath hitching as his hand made it's own way to his cock, palm mimicking John's actions, rubbing slow and firm against his erection. "God, John, if I can't taste you, then at least let me see you, please," he begged.

With a moan, John leaned back and complied. His fingers hooked into the elastic of his trousers and slowly dragged them down powerful, tanned thighs. When freed, his cock bobbed up, smacking lightly against John's downy abdomen, smearing a bead of precum on his skin.

Sherlock licked his lips and ground up into his hand. "God, John. You're so amazing," he said. "Wrap your hand around your cock for me and stroke."

John's head fell back as he did as Sherlock said, his left hand wrapping firmly around his erection, immediately stroking surely. He fell into a rhythm, and with a smile, he realized that it was similar to the way Sherlock touched him.

"God, John. You're breathtaking," Sherlock breathed, his nimble fingers wrapping deftly around his cock. "Faster. I need to see you cum."

John moaned obscenely, wrist twisting on each upstroke as he increased his pace. "God, Sherlock, keep talking," he panted, hips arcing up to press further into his grip,

"You like my voice, don't you, John?" Sherlock asked, wiggling closer to the camera. "Like to hear me tell you what to do, how to touch yourself? I bet you'd love to hear what I'd do if I was there."

John nodded and bit his lip, a pleased hum buzzing in his throat.

Sherlock smirked. "First, I'd kiss your lips and lick my way into your mouth. I wouldn't stop kissing you until we were both pleasantly dizzy and disoriented. Your hands would weave into my hair, and mine would be on your hips or your thighs. You're so strong there, John, and I love to feel the muscles ripple under your skin when you move," he said. "Get the lube, John. You'll need it for what's next."

Scrambling, John lurched for the bedside table, rummaging around in the drawer until he pulled out their bottle of lube. He returned to his spot in front of his laptop triumphantly waving the little bottle at Sherlock, a breathless smile on his face.

"Get two of your fingers nice and slick, John," Sherlock instructed, squeezing the base of his cock. "Because if I was there, I'd definitely be working your tight arse open, spreading you out on my fingers. You always get so wanton when I do that, and I want to wreck you tonight, John. Until you can't remember anything but my name."

"God, Sherlock," John panted, working the first finger inside his arse. "I'm not gonna last long."

Sherlock smirked. "Good. I wouldn't want you to, John. Push the second finger in now… that's it. I wouldn't waste much time being slow with you. Pump them nice and hard for me," he purred, hand speeding up on his cock.

John moaned and fucked himself hard on two fingers, his jaw hanging open, his breathing rapid. "Feels amazing, Sherlock. Please, more."

"Add a third, John. Really stretch them out, just like I do when I want to be rough with you. Now touch your cock for me, John. I need to see you cum."

John frantically stroked at his erection, Sherlock's name falling from his lips in an endless chant pieced together with some rather colorful exclamations. He spilled over his fist a few heartbeats later, arse clenching beautifully around his three fingers.

Sherlock followed shortly thereafter. Watching John come apart so thoroughly on camera for him was beyond what he could handle, superior brain or not. They came down together, John chuckling as Sherlock struggled to regain his breath.

"Feeling better now, love?" John asked, wiping his cum-covered hand across his chest, smearing the mess across golden skin.

Sherlock groaned and nodded.

John cocked an eyebrow and smiled. "Is that so? Glad I could give you a hand," he commented, winking at his lover. They were quiet for a moment, John watching as Sherlock's brain seemed to reboot.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock murmured, his quicksilver eyes blinking open. "It was the housekeeper. Once again, you've outdone yourself."

"And there he is," John said. "Mr. Married-to-my-work."

Sherlock stared blankly at John. "Shut up," he murmured, waving a hand dismissively at John. "Now, I'm going to go wake up Mycroft's men, arrest the housekeeper, and be back in London by the time you get home from work. Have enough food in the fridge to last us a few days, and be prepared for me at all times."

John chuckled and smiled. "Sure thing, love. I'll pick up all our favorites. Can't wait for you to come home."

The tips of Sherlock's lips curled upwards and the edges of his eyes crinkled softly. "And I cannot wait to come home," he admitted. He ended the call quickly after that and began frantically re-packing his suitcase. Twenty minutes later, he was showered and stomping loudly down the hallway, knocking on doors to wake Mycroft's men. It was time to finish the case.


	9. Day Nine

**Here's the ninth day's prompt: Against the Wall. Sorry it's been a while since I've posted anything, life has gotten busy again. If we're lucky, this might turn out as another two-for-one day and Day Ten might be posted later today. As always, please let me know what you think. Cheers.**

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Sherlock had wrapped up the case and returned to London just in time for tea. He lingered at the airport, biding his time before returning to Baker Street. He couldn't go home just yet; Sherlock knew that he'd get distracted by something and would miss John's return from work. That couldn't happen, he had plans for John, so Sherlock spent an hour reacquainting himself with London. Stepping out into London's streets, Sherlock took a deep breath, emitting a pleased hum as the familiar smog filled his lungs. Exhaling, Sherlock admitted that it was good to be home.

John was on edge. He was only half-way through his shift at the clinic, and he was about ready to start humping his chair. After his early morning Skype call with Sherlock, John had done exactly as he'd been asked. He took his time getting ready for work, making sure to be incredibly thorough with his shower. When he was clean, he'd returned to their bed and pushed more lube into his body, making sure he was still stretched enough. With his lover's words still ringing in his ear, John pushed a medium-sized silicone plug into his arse, washed his hands, and pulled on his tight, red pants. He needed all the help keeping the plug in as he could.

At work, John quickly found that he was hypersensitive. The plug kept shifting inside him, kneading against his prostate every time he bent over or turned just so. His hands plunged into his trousers after each patient left, fingers swiping across the base of the plug to measure how slick he was before pressing the plug in as far as it would go. The lube went tacky right around tea time, and John spent his afternoon break locked in the bathroom, trousers pooled around his ankles as he re-slicked the toy and pressed it back in with a muffled groan. Even if Sherlock didn't follow through with the promise to fuck him as soon as he got home, John would be damned if he wasn't properly prepared.

The walk home was agony. John had been half-hard most of the day, cock twitching hopefully in his pants. He did his best to keep a straight face as he walked from work to Angelo's, to the Blue Elephant, to the curry place just around the corner from their flat. By the time he entered Baker Street and tottered up the stairs to pack the food away, John was ready to jump anything that moved. With a groan, he packed away their takeout and thought about Mycroft, thought about war, thought about being shot; anything to make his cock deflate in his trousers.

Sherlock arrived home just after John finished putting away their food, the door to Baker Street banging shut noisily behind him. A moment later, John's head peeked out from their doorway, lust-blown eyes blinking unbelievingly at him. And then, John was flying down the stairs, launching himself at Sherlock, pulling the unsuspecting detective into a needy kiss.

Sherlock's bag clattered to the floor as his hands moved to settle on John's ass, squeezing the supple flesh. John moaned deliciously against him and pressed his body flush against Sherlock's, hands tangling in his curls. It had been far too long since Sherlock had seen John, tasted John, _had John_, and it was time to fix that. Like a man possessed, Sherlock pulled John impossibly closer, unable to properly get enough. No matter how close they were, how hard they kissed, how frantically they clawed and grappled at each other, Sherlock needed more.

"John," he groaned, breaking the kiss to press their foreheads together. "More. I need more."

"Then take more, Sherlock. Take what you need. God, I've been ready for you all day," John said, thrusting his hips against his lover's.

Sherlock moaned and dove back in, mauling John's mouth with his. Teeth clacked together, hands ripped at clothes, and erections ground frantically together. Sherlock's teeth sunk into John's neck, lips wrapping around skin and sucking, pulling a surprised moan from John's throat.

Clothes were shed at a breakneck pace, buttons popping off and fabric ripping as inch after inch of smooth, hot skin was revealed. Before he could register what was going on, John had been turned around and bent against the wall, Sherlock's hands roaming over his arse. He moaned needily as Sherlock's fingers settled on the base of the plug and twisted it slowly as he pulled it out. John's breath hitched as Sherlock dropped the plug and pressed two fingers back inside John, pumping them slowly. Instantly, his mind started listing the differences between his fingers and Sherlock's. He liked the feel of Sherlock's fingers inside him more.

"God, John. How long have you been ready for me?" Sherlock growled, thrusting his fingers in sharply. "How long have you been wearing that plug, wishing it was my cock instead?"

"Since before work, " John replied, voice breathy and broken. "You told me to, Ah! be ready for you at all times."

Sherlock groaned and bent over to place a kiss on John's neck. "I'm convinced that you will never cease to amaze me, John," he murmured, nipping at the skin.

"Mmm, god, I hope not. Now fuck me, Sherlock. Right now. If you're not inside me in the next thirty seconds, I bloody promise that I'm going to lock myself in our room and bugger myself with the first toy I can find," John huffed, wiggling his hips.

Sherlock's hand came down hard on John's arse, the skin rippling deliciously as it reddened. "Turn around, John. Want to see you when you cum," Sherlock ordered, hands pulling on John's hips.

Eagerly, John turned around, cock bobbing between his thighs as he did. Sherlock cut off any complaints he might have voiced with his lips, kissing John as if he was dying of thirst and John was water.

John gasped when Sherlock's hands dropped to his thighs. His breath hitched when Sherlock pulled one of his legs up to wrap around his waist. John's breath stopped completely when Sherlock pulled the second one up and pressed him securely against the wall in one, fluid motion, his cock rubbing teasingly against John's.

"Hold on tight," Sherlock breathed, nipping at John's earlobe. As soon as he felt John's arms wrap securely around his shoulders, Sherlock dropped one hand to wrap around the base of his erection, taking care to position himself perfectly before he pressed up into John.

They both groaned as their bodies joined, arms and legs instinctively clutching each other tighter. Despite wearing the plug all day, John was still so tight around Sherlock, and Sherlock still made John feel impossibly full. They held still for a few long moments, time being measured only by the puffs of their breath, the throbbing of their cocks, and the beating of their hearts.

"John," Sherlock choked out after a minute, his voice roughened with lust. "Can I move?"

"God yes. Fuck me now, Sherlock. I can take it," John replied, wiggling impatiently in Sherlock's embrace.

The grip of John's arse was exquisitely tight around Sherlock's cock. He knew he had to start slowly, lest he cum too soon. Gently, he rocked against John, revelling in the breathy groan John emitted, the sound proof that his lover found pleasure in their coupling.

"Harder, Sherlock. Please. I've been hard all day and I need it, love. Need you. Right now," John begged, doing his best to fuck himself down on Sherlock's length.

With a grunt, Sherlock pulled back, leaving just the tip of his erection inside John, and then he slammed his hips forward, driving all of his length as deep inside John as he could get. He was grateful, he mused in passing, for all of the lube John had pressed inside himself during the day. Without it, Sherlock knew that it would probably sting. Then again, if the obscene moans falling freely from John's lips were anything to go by, the doctor would probably relish a little pain with his pleasure.

"God, Sherlock. Feels so good. Been wanting this all day," John mumbled, allowing his head to fall forward against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Have you, now?" Sherlock purred, hands squeezing John's arse. "Is this as good as your imagined it to be, John?"

"N-no," John panted, biting his lips hard to muffle a groan. "It's so much better. More, Sherlock. _More_."

Sherlock complied, pistoning his hips, building up a steady rhythm as he entered john over and over. He could feel his lover nearing orgasm, his pleasure so obvious in the way John was clenching sporadically around his cock. It was as if John was trying to squeeze an orgasm out of him. "You're amazing, John," Sherlock moaned softly, leaning in to kiss his lover messily. "Feels amazing."

"So good," John agreed, fingers grappling for leverage on Sherlock's neck, tangling into the soft, short curls on his nape. "I'm close."

Sherlock's hips stuttered as John's fingers tightened in his hair, the action pulling not only his sensitive follicles, but also a deep groan from his throat. "Then cum, John," he growled, slamming inside his lover hard, causing John's head to fly back and knock loudly against the wall.

"Christ, Sherlock. You can't just say things like that," John groaned, clenching hard around his lover's cock. "You're going to make me cum."

"I believe," Sherlock whispered, pausing to nip at John's earlobe. "That _that_ is the point," he finished, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust of his hips.

"Oh god," John puffed. "Jesus Christ."

"You're so beautiful like this, John," Sherlock murmured. "So tight and hot around my cock."

"Fuck, Sherlock. Don't wanna cum yet," John snapped, gulping in large lungfuls of air in an attempt to center himself.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, pace unrelenting as he bent to suck a mark in John's neck.

"I wanna last longer," John huffed, hands pressing Sherlock's face deeper against his skin.

Sherlock chuckled. "I don't think that's it," he purred. "I think you just want to feel me cum inside you. That's the only reason you haven't orgasmed yet."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," John murmured, a litany of curses falling from his lips in breathy pants. "Sherlock-"

"I'm almost there, John. I'm going to cum inside you, fill you up nice and full. And then we are going to go upstairs and I'm going to bend you over the kitchen table and fuck you again."

"God, Sherlock. _Yes_," John moaned. "Don't stop. Never stop. Want it so much."

"And after I'm done fucking you on the kitchen table, I'm going to take put a bigger plug inside you and take you to bed," Sherlock growled, teeth sinking into John's neck.

John's hands pulled harshly on Sherlock's curls, hauling his mouth up to meet his, lips mashing against each other as their tongues licked into each other's mouths. The kiss was absolutely filthy, teeth biting at lips, both men trying to gain the upper hand.

"Gonna fill you up, John," Sherlock groaned, hips stuttering as he teetered on the edge. "Cum for me," he barked.

And John did, head banging against the wall again, his channel clenching almost painfully around Sherlock's cock as spurt after spurt of hot cum seemed to burn his insides. His vision went blinding white and fuzzy around the edges as his cock jerked, ropes of white cum smearing messily between their bodies. When he came to, Sherlock was still buried deep inside him, his lover's eyes obscenely dark with want. "Christ, Sherlock," he murmured, voice cracking halfway through. "That was amazing."

Sherlock hummed in agreement and leaned in to kiss him gently. "I'm glad you agree," he murmured, gently guiding John's legs to the floor. Once John was supported properly by the wall, Sherlock slowly eased his flaccid length from his lover, a strangled moan falling from his lips as he saw some of his release ooze down John's upper thighs.

"God, John," he said, stepping back to look his lover from head to toe. "You should never be allowed clothes ever again.

John chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. "If I'm not allowed clothes, then you aren't either," he countered, smiling and winking. "Now I believe you said something about buggering me on the kitchen table?"

Sherlock nodded. "Why yes I did," he replied, bending to pick up his bag. "Come along, John," he said, striding up the stairs in a whirlwind, leaving John to ogle his arse.

With a chuckle, John gathered their clothes and his plug before he followed his lover up to their flat. If he was lucky, maybe he'd convince Sherlock to eat some of their takeaway before the next round.


	10. Day Ten

**Here's the tenth day's prompt: Doggy Style. I know I deviated a little bit by adding something else in, but I think that it's ok. I hope you enjoy this installment, and that this chapter finds you well. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. Cheers!**

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They eat in their dressing gowns, neither John nor Sherlock saw much point in tugging on clothes they were only going to shed less than an hour later. John kept shifting and fidgeting in his seat between bites of curry and rice, his cheeks flushed a brilliant red. It was distracting for Sherlock, especially since he already found eating so mind numbingly boring. He knew why John was shifting so much, obviously, and that knowledge made everything that much harder.

He could see John, in his mind eye, fidgeting without his dressing gown. He watched as the muscles in his thighs clenched and unclenched, watched as his chest heaved with breath, watched as John's entrance fluttered around nothing, the remains of his earlier release still dribbling from John's arse to smear across his cheeks, his thighs, his heel as he tucked a leg up and under himself. Naturally, Sherlock couldn't possibly focus on eating his dumplings; not when the fantasy of eating John was so prominent in his mind.

"Sherlock," John called, pulling his lover from his thoughts. "You need to eat at least half your dumplings."

Sherlock huffed but complied, stuffing a while dumpling in his mouth. He hurried through his dictated portion and promptly packed the leftovers away when he was finished, focusing his hungry gaze on John as he retook his seat at the table. Time seemed to drag on as John slowly worked his way through bite after bite of his meal, a small smirk on his face. Sherlock found his mind racing, unable to prevent it from projecting images of John fingering himself open, John on his knees with his lips wrapped around his erection, John writing as he bounced and writhed on Sherlock's cock… Sherlock swallowed thickly and let his gaze run greedily over John's body. Dinner needed to be over soon.

He jumped John as soon as he rose from the table to throw his container away, pressing him back into the counter, kissing him deeply. John seemed to fight back against him, his hands pushing at Sherlock's shoulders, mouth biting Sherlock's as he was kissed. Growling, Sherlock tore the dressing gown from John's body and pushed him over the edge of the table, hand coming down harshly on John's arse.

John's spine jerked and his hands fought to push himself back up. Another swat of Sherlock's hand had him flush against the table, a moan rumbling in his throat. When Sherlock pressed against him a moment later, John's body went limp, his legs spreading in a silent plea for more.

"Did it turn you on, having my cum leak out of you while you ate?" Sherlock asked, rubbing his length through the slickness between John's cheeks.

John felt his cheeks burn as he nodded. "I feel so empty though, Sherlock. Need you in me; need you to fuck me."

Sherlock chuckled and pressed the head of his cock against John's entrance, watching as the wrinkled, puffy skin started to stretch and give as he pressed against it. "Be patient, John. You're so beautiful like this, all wanton for me."

John shivered under Sherlock's touch. "Please, Sherlock," John pleaded, voice breaking. "Don't tease."

The moan John emitted as Sherlock pushed into him was filthy and obscene. It was mind blowing, really, that John was still so tight, even after being fucked so thoroughly. He felt so good, clenched hard around Sherlock's cock, his channel slicked with the residue of their previous coupling. That information made Sherlock's blood burn hotter as he thrust experimentally, gauging John's reaction. Going by the needy whine his lover emitted, John clearly could take what Sherlock wanted to give to him, wanted it even. Sherlock was all too happy to comply.

Sherlock's pace was brutal, hips snapping hard, his hipbones slapping roughly against John's arse. John knew that he would likely have bruises tomorrow, both from Sherlock's hipbones and also from his fingers as they pulled and clawed at John's hips. Normally, John would have been slightly frustrated by being marked, but because it was Sherlock, John revelled in it. He already had a spectacular hickey blooming on his neck, so why not add to it with more bruises and a pleasantly aching arse? "More," he pleaded, backing against Sherlock. "Please, Sherlock, _more_."

Sherlock slowed his pace, thrusting deep into John, pulling a frustrated, needy groan from his lover. "I'll fuck you however I please," he growled, his hand slapping against John's arse again. "Right now, you are mine, John. Mine. I'm going to fuck you through your orgasm and into oversensitivity. I'm going to fuck you until I cum inside you, adding to the slickness that's already there. And then I'm going to take you to bed, make you cum again. I'm going to wreck you, John. Gonna tear up your perfect arse and rip apart your mind until the only thought you're capable of thinking is my name."

John was reduced to broken sentences made up of colorful curses and Sherlock's name. His entire body was consumed by pleasure. Extacy burned under his skin and short-circuited his brain. His cock was throbbing, pre-cupm leaking copiously, dripping down to splatter silently on the floor. Orgasm was just out of reach, and John wanted it. He wanted everything Sherlock had described, wanted to be reduced even further into an incoherent puddle of need, wanted to cum and burn and be consumed by his lover. "Please," he begged, hands scrabbling for purchase on the table. "I need to cum, Sherlock. Please."

Sherlock chuckled and bent over to bite into John's shoulder. "Then cum, John," he murmured, breath falling hotly against John's skin. "Cum on my cock."

John came, his breath hitching as his nerves burst into flames. His vision blurred and blood roared in his ears. It felt like John was floating for a few, blissful moments, and then he was slamming back inside himself, Sherlock's name ripping itself from his throat as his body burned impossibly hotter.

John was absolutely stunning, Sherlock mused. His entire body had tensed up when he came, clenching around him like the most perfect vice. His skin was glistening under a sheen of sweat, his tanned skin flushing with arousal. After his orgasm, John acted as if he no longer had any inhibitions, thoughts spilling out in a broken stream from his mouth, his voice high, breathy, and broken. The flush slowly crawled down John's spine, his skin glowing as he groaned. Feeling his own orgasm approaching, Sherlock leaned in and reached for John's cock, fondling the partially hard member.

John keened at the sensation, his cock filling half-heartedly with blood. His skin was tingling madly, acting as if his nerves were flayed and raw. It was both too much and not enough, and John wasn't quite sure if he wanted Sherlock to stop or fuck him harder. It was a very good thing, John thought in his pleasure-addled brain, that Sherlock made the decision for him. It was much easier to give up thinking and focus on the way Sherlock's cock felt as hit pounded torturously against his prostate.

Sherlock's hips stuttered as he came, slamming himself as deep inside John as he could. When his orgasm subsided, he gently eased John backwards and bent him in half as soon as his head cleared the edge of the table. "Stay just like that until I get back. Try not to let any of my cum leak out of you," he ordered, gently slipping himself out of John's abused hole. Sherlock slipped into their bedroom and rifled through their small toy box, wrapping his fingers around the biggest plug he can find, complete with a matching harness. Smirking, he returned to John, nearly dropping the toy when he got an eyeful of his lover.

John was sex personified. His hair was ruffled, his entire body slick and flushed, and his cock was hard and leaking. Sherlock momentarily longed to take a picture, but cast that thought aside to help his lover into the harness. He carefully pushed the plug into John's arse next, pulling a confused moan from his lover. Once the plug was secured into the harness, Sherlock eased John upright and kissed his forehead sweetly. "Come on, John. Let's get you cleaned up."

John allowed himself to be led into their bathroom, his hands clutching at Sherlock's shoulders as he tottered beside the detective on unsteady feet. Gently, Sherlock wet a soft flannel and wiped him down, taking great care to avoid his cock. When John was clean, Sherlock rinsed the flannel and cleaned himself, flung the soiled flannel into their hamper, and pulled John into the bedroom, nestling between his legs once he was laying on the bed.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, voice uneasy.

"Isn't it obvious, John?" Sherlock countered, wrapping a pale hand around the base of John's erection. "I did promise to make you cum again."

John was thankful that he was laying down as Sherlock wrapped his lips around him, sucking John's cock wetly into his mouth. Had he still been standing when Sherlock's tongue flicked repeatedly across his frenulum, John was sure his legs would have given out completely. He's not quite sure how long Sherlock works his cock, that brilliant mouth had turned time immeasurable some time ago, but it feels like hours.

His third orgasm of the night finally crashed over him when Sherlock started humming Vivaldi around his cock. John's hands tangled in Sherlock's curls, and it felt as if his cum was lava, the fire of oversensitivity burning through his body as he came. Sherlock swallowed John's release and pulled off, a smirk on his face.

"How was that?" Sherlock asked, leaning up to press a kiss to John's lips. John's reply was a sated chortle accompanied by a goofy grin. Sherlock smiled and climbed into bed, hands pulling John close as he settled in.

"Sherlock?" John called after a moment.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied.

"Next time, you get to be the oversensitive one," he stated, snuggling in.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the top of John's head. "Of course," he replied. "Of course." Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed softly, lulling John off to sleep. He knew he'd have to sleep soon, too; knew that John would be sore and in need of care in the morning. Yawning, Sherlock turned and buried his nose in John's hair, breathing in his lover's scent. Yes, he thought as his impromptu lullaby trailed off, it was good to be home.


	11. Day Eleven

Red. Walking into their shared bathroom, all John could see was red. It was everywhere, puddled on the floor tiles, smeared across the basin of the sink, pressed into the wallpaper. He turned to look at Sherlock, a question on his tongue when he saw more red, this time the color spread across Sherlock's wrist. A flash of silver caught his eye, and then more red beaded up on Sherlock's forearm, quickly mixing with the red already there, and it took John a moment to comprehend what he actually saw. Another swipe of silver later, and John's hands were reaching out to wrap around Sherlock's wrists, his grip firm and stinging around the wounds, a plethora of identical, parallel cuts in his skin, each one made precisely with a steady hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" John growled, eyes blazing as he watches the silver thing - a razorblade - clatter to join all the red on the floor.

Sherlock sucked air harshly through his teeth, hissing at John's touch. "John," he murmured, blinking wide-eyed at his flatmate. "It's nothing. Leave me alone," he said, attempting to wrench his wrists from John's grip.

John raised a single eyebrow in disbelief, frowning at his flatmate. "I'm not an idiot, Sherlock," he said, holding fast. "Nor am I blind. Now explain."

Sherlock glowered at John and remained silent, his quicksilver eyes bored into John's as if issuing a challenge.

Accepting Sherlock's challenge, John straightened up and tightened his grip. "Talk, Sherlock. Use your words," he urged, his voice stern.

Sherlock continued to glower at John, his lips clamped shut.

John sighed and clicked his heels together. When Sherlock still refused to speak, John had decided that enough was enough. If Sherlock was going to act like a child, then John was going to treat him like one. And stroppy children were punished. Pulling hard on Sherlock's wrists, John dragged him back into the sitting room of their flat, sat down on the couch, and yanked Sherlock down to lay across his lap.

The first blow on Sherlock's arse seemed to startle both of them. A strangled whimper worked it's way from Sherlock's throat as he struggled against John's hold. "Let me go, John," he demanded, hissing when the other man gripped his wounds tightly. "You're hurting me."

John's open palm collided with Sherlock's arse thrice more before he replied. "That's the point," he growled, bringing his palm down harshly on Sherlock's upper thighs. "You're behaving like a child, Sherlock. So that's how I'm going to treat you." Sherlock quivered underneath him, and by the fifteenth strike of John's palm, he had gone limp over his lap.

Sherlock's trousers were removed after the thirty-seventh swat, and by the time John had struck him some fifty times, his arms had wound tightly around John's calf, fingers digging into hard muscles hidden behind soft denim John finally paused after the sixtieth blow, hand rubbing soothingly at his lower back. "Are you ready to tell me what all that was about?" he asked.

Sherlock murmured something into John's jeans and tightened his grip on his leg, smearing red across his pant leg. Sighing, John ran a hand up and tangled his fingers into Sherlock's dark curls, pulling back to allow the other man's words to be heard.

"I can't hear you when you're speaking into my trousers, Sherlock," he admonished.

"I said it helps me think, John!" he snapped, glaring up at John, a furious blush burning across his cheeks.

"What part of it helps, Sherlock?" John asked, easing his grip on his flatmate's hair.

Sherlock grew silent and dropped his gaze to the floor. He couldn't bear to have John look at him like this, with his gaze that seemed to peer all the way down into his soul. He did his best to focus on anything but John's face, turning his gaze to the red splotches his wrists had left all over John's trousers.

"Sherlock, either you can talk to me, or I can continue with the punishment. It's up to you," John said, adjusting his position on the couch.

Squeezing his eyes tight, he thought about his options. Talking was something he definitely didn't want to do; not right now, at least. Although he trusted John, he wanted to avoid the other man's pity. And talking would certainly warrant him on the receiving end of John's pity.

The idea of John continuing to punish him, however, left a decidedly different taste in his mouth. His arse was already tender and starting to sting, but instead of being thrown off balance, Sherlock found that it anchored him in a way that the cutting never had. As John brought down his hand once more, Sherlock gasped and rocked forward, completely flabbergasted as all of his senses turned to focus on John, effectively shutting out the rest of the world.

"John?" Sherlock breathed, his body going still. "Will you help me?" he asked.

John stiffened. "Help you with what, Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "Will you help me think?"

"And how would I do that?" John countered, his eyebrows furrowed.

"By continuing this," Sherlock answered.

It was silent in 221B for a few long moments, Sherlock's heart fluttering and an alarmingly increasing pace against his rib cage. Then John shifted, spreading his legs a little more to allow easier access to Sherlock's arse. "Will you tell me why this helps?" he asked, settling his hand steadily on Sherlock's lower back.

Sherlock shivered under John's touch and nodded. "But after we're done. Please, John. It's this or the blade."

"Okay. That's fine, Sherlock. But there need to be a few ground rules," John stated.

"I'm listening," Sherlock huffed, shifting uncomfortably over John's chair.

"First, you have to listen to what I say, Sherlock. And follow my instructions. If I say no, I mean no. If I say to get on your knees, then you are to get on your knees. Is that clear?"

Sherlock nodded, whimpering when John's hand fisted in his curls again, pulling his head back sharply.

"Words, Sherlock. You need to use them," he chided.

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured, a frown marring his features.

John smiled softly. "That's a good lad. Now, I want you to pick a safeword for me," he said, rubbing small circles into the nape of Sherlock's neck with his thumb.

"Microscope," Sherlock replied instantly, relaxing against John's hands.

John hummed happily. "Thank you, Sherlock. That's well done. If what I do gets to be too much for you, use that word and I'll stop. Understand?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, chancing a look up at John. "Can we continue now?"

John looked thoughtful for a moment. "First, you need to fetch some things for me. Go and grab my medical kit and your riding crop. Then we'll meet in your bedroom, ok?" John replied.

Sherlock nodded and immediately rose from John's lap, hastily tugging up his trousers with a wince before setting off to find the necessary items. He joined John in his bedroom a few minutes, sitting gingerly on the side of his bed, waiting for John's next instructions.

In lieu of words, John opened the kit, reached for Sherlock's wrists, and cradled them in his right hand while his left tended to the torn skin, dabbing up blood and wrapping some rudimentary bandages around them. "This will do for now, I don't want blood all over your sheets," he said, releasing his hold on Sherlock to shut his medical kit.

A few heartbeats later, the kit was on the floor and John was standing in front of him with Sherlock's riding crop in his hand. Judging by the tension of his grip on the handle and the angle of his wrist, Sherlock deduced that this was not John's first time in this type of situation. Swallowing thickly, Sherlock lowered his eyes in an attempt to hide his blazing cheeks.

"I'm going to use this on you, Sherlock. And I'm going to beat your arse until I think you've had enough. Understand?" John asked, swishing the crop through the air a few times, getting a feel for the toy.

"Understood," Sherlock replied. "Do you want me over your lap, or should I bend over the edge of the bed?"

"Side of the bed," John ordered. "And drop your trousers. Keep on your shirt if it makes you feel comfortable, but I expect to see your bare arse and quickly."

Sherlock wasted no more time, quickly rising to his feet, dropping his trousers and pants before bending awkwardly over the side of his bed. His cheeks flushed even deeper at the knowledge that his arse was practically on display for John. Sherlock balled his hands into fists and swallowed audibly as he waited for the first strike to come.

Minutes ticked by, and still, John hadn't moved from his spot just inside the door, the crop still held firmly in his hand. Frowning, Sherlock turned to say something, his words dying on his tongue as John moved, bringing the crop down on the fleshiest part of Sherlock's arse. Pain seared across his skin and a groan tumbled from Sherlock's throat.

John landed a few more lashes across his arse before he paused. "This okay?" he asked, tapping the crop lightly against the heated skin.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, arching back slightly, an open invitation for John to continue.

As if a switch had been turned, John let loose, raining the blows down on his arse and the back of his thighs. He varied the strength behind them, but even the gentlest of the blows stung so brightly against Sherlock's skin. For once, his brain stuttered to a sluggish pace, only able to handle the sensory input John gave him. He wasn't sure how long John spent behind him, the crop cutting through the air to slap against his flesh; he lost count after the fiftieth strike.

John stopped when Sherlock's arse was red and covered in raised welts. He knew that it had to sting something fierce, and he could only hope that the new type of pain would be enough to drown out the allure of the blade. "Ten more for me, Sherlock," he said, rubbing a hand gently over his abused flesh. "And then we'll be done."

Sherlock nodded and clenched his fists in the now disheveled sheets, his entire body tense. The first strike pulled the air from his lungs and the third had tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. It was the seventh stroke that broke him, sobs pulling his throat tight as tears spilled down his cheeks. His arse was glowing red, covered in welts, and stung more than the cuts on his wrist. "John," he breathed, voice shaky. "I'm sorry."

John brought down the eighth blow and then paused. "What did you just say?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated, arching back towards John. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

The last two strikes were delivered swiftly, and then John was helping him into bed, crawling in behind him, instantly wrapping strong arms around his lithe form, hands rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. "It's fine now," he murmured, his voice soft and steady. "It's all fine now. You did so well."

Still sniffling, Sherlock pressed closer to John, nuzzling his head into the crook of John's neck. They laid there for half an hour, John stroking his back with steady hands, murmuring words of praise into Sherlock's curls. He was half asleep when John finally pulled away, bending over to retrieve his first aid kit.

"Let's get you cleaned up, go for dinner, and then we can talk, ok?" he offered, popping open the kit.

"That sounds good," Sherlock replied, offering his wrists.

John took his time cleaning and re-bandaging his wounds. When he finished, he pressed a pair of gentle kisses on top of each bandage. "I have one more rule," John murmured, looking up to lock his gaze with Sherlock's.

Sherlock nodded and waited for John to continue.

"Whenever it gets to be too much, you come to me instead of going for the blade, ok?" he asked, rubbing gently over Sherlock's wrists. "I know it's not much, but I can give you this when you need help thinking."

Sherlock smiled and squeezed John's hands. "I promise, John," he agreed. "I promise."

Gently, John's lips pressed against his, humming contentedly when Sherlock kissed back. "Dinner?" he asked, breaking the kiss.

"Starving," Sherlock replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile.


	12. Day Twelve

**And here is the twelfth prompt of the challenge: Fingering. I hope this chapter finds you all well, and that you enjoy it. Cheers!**

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It was the beginning of October when Lestrade finally cashed in a favour in the form of a simple case - a four - that required quite a bit of legwork and travelling. John and Sherlock ended up spending three weeks running all over eastern Europe, chasing after criminals and hunting for clues. By the time everything was wrapped up and the duo were cleared to head back to England, they were definitely feeling the strain of limited physical intimacy.

Needless to say, both John and Sherlock were sexually frustrated. Wanking only relieved so much tension, and the chaste kisses pressed to cheeks and foreheads in passing was nothing like a good, long snog on the couch with a Bond film playing in the background. As much as Sherlock loved his Work, he really missed John. Perhaps it was time to re-evaluate the "body is just for transport while on a case" rule. Especially for the ones lasting over two days.

Upon their return to Baker Street, Sherlock texted Lestrade; alerting him that he would be unavailable for the next two days, minimum, and not to contact him for anything. After the message was sent, he turned to John, took in his hungry gaze, and strode into their bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

John joined him shortly thereafter, his shirt already discarded somewhere in their flat. Swallowing thickly, Sherlock reached out for his lover, sliding his hands up John's chest to grip his shoulders, urging John down to join him on the bed.

Instead of joining together fast and hard like Sherlock thought they would, John pressed Sherlock back on their bed and took his time. They came together slowly, starting with a melding of their lips, tongues licking into each other's mouths. John's hands stroked gently over his body, slowly pulling off his clothes and worshipping the skin found underneath. Fingertips traced random patterns across his sternum, down his ribcage, and pressed into the hollows of his hips. John's hands were steady and sure, wrapping clever fingers around Sherlock's cock as they kissed, breathy moans muffled in each other's mouths.

Sherlock arched half way off the bed at the first press of John's fingers against his hole, a needy whimper falling from his lips. John hummed appreciatively and leaned down to lick at Sherlock's erection, now-slick fingers teasing as they smeared lube around his entrance.

John's hands were perfection, Sherlock mused, pressing back against his lover's touch, gasping as one finger slid inside him easily. Just like the rest of him, John's hands were incredibly complex; the dichotomy of his personality transparent in his touch. His calloused fingers spoke of the roughness of war only a soldier could experience, while his tenderness and finesse echoed the compassionate nature of a doctor. John's hands were wonderful, capable of bringing both pain and pleasure when needed.

Above all other things, Sherlock liked John's hands the best when his fingers were buried deep inside his body. Those fingers always seemed to know what he needed, knew when they should press mercilessly against Sherlock's prostate, and also when to twist and stretch him wide, denying him the pleasure he needed to climax. He moaned and spread his legs further when John finally pressed a secondary, slick digit alongside the first.

"Jesus Christ you're tight, Sherlock," John growled, twisting his fingers to work his lover open. "Gonna take a while to get you ready."

Sherlock whined and pressed back against John's hands. "It's fine. Feels good," he murmured, his voice rumbling low in his chest. As far as he was concerned, John could spend as much time preparing him as he pleased.

"Look at you, Sherlock," John said, pressing in deep to rub firmly against Sherlock's prostate. "So gorgeous. And all laid out for me. God, I could touch you like this for hours."

Sherlock groaned at John's words, a series of images flashing through his mind. He saw what John had mentioned, his own body spread out, John's fingers pumping deep inside him. His own chest was flushed a dusky rose and heaving, his nipples were hard, and his cock was red and weeping as it throbbed rhythmically to smack against his abdomen. He looked absolutely wrecked under John's touch, and by the looks of it, neither of them could get enough.

"John, please," Sherlock panted, glassy eyes searching to lock with John's.

"Please what, love?" John asked, rubbing steady circles against Sherlock's prostate. "What do you need?"

"More," Sherlock replied, moaning brokenly. "I need more."

Swearing colorfully, John pushed a third finger inside his lover, his jaw falling open at the picture Sherlock made. His mouth had fallen open, and his expressive eyes were glazed over with pleasure. A flush bloomed high on his cheekbones, spreading down his neck to spread across his collarbone. Sherlock was pressing back in rhythm with John's fingers, forcing him to reach deeper inside him. Watching him writhe under his touch, John wasn't sure that his lover was aware of his movement. Sherlock was too fucking gorgeous, and John had to have him. Now.

Sherlock keened when John eased his fingers from his body, hands immediately reaching for John's wrist. "Why did you stop?" he asked, gripping John's wrist tightly. Not waiting for an answer, Sherlock guided John's fingers back to his entrance, impatiently pressing them back inside.

Shocked, John watched his lover for a few, short moments. "I was going to fuck you, love," he replied, stretching his fingers once more.

"I want to cum like this, John. Please?" Sherlock asked, clenching down around his partner's digits.

John swore again, causing Sherlock's blush to deepen, and pulled his fingers out again. "Fuck yes you can cum like this. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, do you have any idea how fucking sexy you are?" he replied, pouring more lube on his hand.

Sherlock's answer came in the form of a broken moan as John pressed more slickness inside him, fingers diving to press relentlessly against his prostate. "God, John. Love your hands. So good," he babbled, fingers fisting into the sheets. "So strong, and so deep inside me. Feels full. Feels good."

John teased Sherlock for what felt like ages, driving the taller man deeper and deeper into a haze of pleasure. It wasn't long until Sherlock became incoherent, words rambling from his mouth in unconnected phrases. He kept clenching around John's fingers, as if he was attempting to pull him in even further, and John found it very difficult to refrain from pulling his cock from his pants and slamming home inside his lover. Instead, he placed his free hand on Sherlock's abdomen, pulled his fingers back slowly until just the tips remained inside, and then pressed back in at a glacial speed, pressing his pinky in alongside the other three.

Sherlock arched violently, a groan ripping harshly from his throat. John's name tumbled from between his lips in a litany, the stanzas broken up with breathy pants. He had never cum without having his cock touched, but John had a feeling he would with the right stimulation. Bending to press a kiss against the inside of Sherlock's thigh, John pressed his hand as deep as Sherlock would take him, lined his fingers up with his prostate, and flicked over it, hard and fast.

Suddenly, Sherlock grew quiet, his body freezing and clenching down hard around John's fingers. His cock jerked twice before his entire body went taut and he was cumming, a sob falling from his throat as pleasure erupted through his veins. As soon as John felt his lover's channel wrapped around his digits like a vice, he was following suit, painting the inside of his pants with pulse after pulse of his release, his hips bucking against nothing in a futile pursuit of friction.

It took them both a while to come down from the high of orgasm, both lingering in the afterglow as long as they could. When John finally came back to his senses, he eased his fingers from his lover, pressing a chaste kiss to Sherlock's knee as he winced. They cleaned up and pulled on clean pairs of pants before nestling underneath the previously shed sheets and duvet. John was nearly asleep when he heard Sherlock clear his throat softly.

"John?" he asked, his voice quiet. "What do you think about fisting?"

John chuckled and pressed a kiss to his lover's unruly curls. "I think we can definitely give that a try sometime," he replied, rubbing gentle circles between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

Sherlock hummed and pressed a small kiss to the side of his chest. "Thank you," he murmured. "What you did tonight, it was good."

It was quiet in their bedroom for a few moments, both seemingly caught in their recent memories. "Sherlock?" John said after a moment.

"Hmmm?" his lover replied.

"We can try fisting, but only if I get to open you up with my tongue first."

Sherlock said no more, but the two spots of color that appeared high on his cheekbones told John that Sherlock was just as eager to try it as he was. Grinning softly, John pulled Sherlock in closer to his body. His last thought before drifting off to a very sated sleep was that he couldn't wait for the morning to get there.


End file.
